A Changed Heart Part 26

She kissed them all good night, even Catty, in the happiness of her heart; and, wrapped in her shawl and cloud, she took her brother's arm and started. The fog was thicker, and wetter, and colder than ever; the night as wretched a one for a walk as could well be imagined, and the bleak sea wind blew raw in their faces all the way.

"How confoundedly cold it is!" exclaimed Charley, "more like January than July. You will perish, Natty, before we get to Redmon! You should not have come out this evening."

"I wanted to talk to you, Charley, on a very important matter indeed!"

Charley stared at her grave tone, but it all flashed upon him directly.

Nathalie was used to talk to him more as a mother than a sister, in her superior woman's wisdom, and Charley was accustomed to take her lectures cheerfully enough; but in the damp darkness his face flushed rebelliously now.

He would not speak again, and his sister, after waiting a moment, broke the silence herself.

"It is about that girl, Charley?"

"What girl?" inquired Mr. Marsh, rather sulkily.

"You know well enough--Cherrie Nettleby."

"Well, what of Cherrie Nettleby?" this time defiantly.

"Charley, what do you mean by going with her as you do?"

"Nathalie," said Charley, mimicking her tone, "what do you mean by going with Captain Cavendish as you do?"

"My going with Captain Cavendish has nothing whatever to do with it; but if you want to know what I mean--I mean to marry him!"

"Nathalie, I don't want you to have anything to do with that man,"

Charley burst out pa.s.sionately. "He is a villain!"

"Charley!"

"He is, I tell you! You know nothing about him--I do! I tell you he is a villain!"

"This is ungenerous of you, Charley," she calmly said; "it is cowardly.

Is not Captain Cavendish your friend?"

"A friend I could throttle with the greatest pleasure in life!"

exclaimed Charley, savagely.

"What has he done?"

"More than I would like to tell you--more than you would care to hear!

All I have to say is, I would rather shoot you than see you his wife!"

"You are slandering him!" said Nathalie, her pa.s.sion rising in spite of herself. "You are trying to baffle me; to keep me from talking of Cherrie, but I'll not be put off. You cannot--you cannot mean to marry that girl."

"Natty look here," he said, more gently, "I don't want to be disagreeable, but I cannot be dictated to in this! I am a man, and must choose for myself. I have obeyed you all my life; but in this you must let me be my own master."

"You know what a name she has! She is the talk of all Speckport!"

"Is Speckport ever done talking? Wouldn't it slander an archangel, if it got the chance?"

"But it is true in this instance--she is all that Speckport says--an idle, silly, senseless, flirty, foolish, dressy, extravagant thing! She has nothing in the wide world to recommend her but her good looks."

"Neither has Captain Cavendish, if it comes to that!"

"Charley, it is false! He is a gentleman by birth, rank, and education!"

"Yes," said Charley, bitterly. "Nature did her best to make a gentleman of him, but I know street-sweepers in Speckport ten times more of a gentleman than he! I tell you he is corrupt to the core of his heart--a spendthrift and a fortune-hunter! If you were Miss Marsh, the school-teacher, as you were two or three years ago, he would as soon ask Miss Jo Blake to be his wife as you!"

"I don't doubt it," said Nathalie, quite calmly; "he may not be able to afford the luxury of a penniless bride, and for all that be no fortune-hunter. You can't shake my faith in him, Charley!"

"You are blind!" Charley cried, vehemently. "I am telling you Heaven's truth, Natty, with no other motive than your good!"

"We will drop the subject," said Nathalie, loftily, "and talk of you and Cherrie Nettleby!"

"We'll do nothing of the sort," replied Charley, "resolutely go your own way, Natty, if you will, and I will go mine! The one marriage can be no madder than the other!"

"And you will really marry this girl?"

"I really will, if she will have me!"

Nathalie laughed a low and bitter laugh.

"Have you? Oh, there is little doubt of that, I fancy. Every one knows how she has been running after you this many a day!"

"But there is doubt of it. Your fine Captain Cavendish pursues her like her shadow."

"Charley, I will not listen to another word," cried Nathalie, imperiously. "Your infatuation seems to have changed your very nature.

Why, oh why, has this girl crossed your path? If you wanted to marry, why could you not have chosen some one else? Why could you not have chosen Miss Rose?"

Charley smiled under cover of the darkness. The question was absurd. Why could she not have chosen any of her other suitors, all good and honorable men? Why could she not have chosen Captain Locksley, young, handsome, rich, and the soul of integrity. He did not say so, however, and neither spoke again till the gate of Redmon was reached.

"Good night," Nathalie briefly said, her voice full of inward pain.

"Good night, Natty," Charley replied, "and G.o.d bless you and," lowering his voice as he turned away "keep you from ever becoming the wife of Captain Cavendish!"

He walked on and entered the Nettleby cottage, where he found Cherrie in the parlor alone, bending over a novel. Cherrie's welcome to her lover was uncommonly cordial, for she was ennuied nearly to death. She had expected Captain Cavendish all the afternoon, and had been disappointed.

Had she known that officer was making arrangements for their speedy nuptials, she might perhaps have forgiven him; and at that very moment, whilst talking to Charley of the time when she should be Mrs. Marsh, everything was arranged for her becoming, the very next week, Mrs.

Captain George Cavendish.

About five o'clock of that foggy July afternoon, Mr. Val Blake sat in his private room, in the office of the Speckport Spouter, his shirt-collar limp and wilted with the heat, his hair wildly disheveled, and his expression altogether bewildered and distracted. The table at which he sat was, as usual, heaped with MS., letters, books, buff envelopes, and newspapers; and Mr. Blake was poring over some sheets of white ruled foolscap, closely written in a very cramp and spidery hand.

It was a story from "the fascinating pen of our gifted and talented contributor 'Incognita,' whose previous charming productions have held spellbound hosts of readers," as the Spouter said, in announcing it the following week, and the t.i.tle of the fascinating production was the "Ten Daughters of Dives." Miss Laura Blair had just finished reading the "Seven Loves of Mammon," by Mr. George Augustus Sala; hence the t.i.tle and the quaint style in which the thing was written. So extremely quaint and original indeed was the style, that it soared totally beyond the comprehension of all ordinary intellects, beginning in the most disconcertingly abrupt manner, and ending with a jerk, while you were endeavoring to make out what it was all about.

"It's of no use trying," he murmured, pensively, "the thing is beyond me altogether. I'll put it in, hit or miss, or Laura will never forgive me; and I dare say the women will make out what it means, though I can't make top or tail of it."

There was a tap at the door as he arrived at this conclusion, and Master Bill Blair, in a state of ink, and with a paper cap on his head, labeled with the startling word "Devil" made his appearance, and announced that Captain Cavendish was in the office and wanted to see him.

"Tell him to come in," said Val, rather glad than otherwise of a chat by way of relaxation after his late severe mental labor.